


One Watson's as Good as Another

by Cutebutpsycho



Category: Sherlock Holmes (Downey films)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-23
Updated: 2013-02-23
Packaged: 2017-12-03 07:37:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/695839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cutebutpsycho/pseuds/Cutebutpsycho
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For shkinkmeme. The prompt was that during the hiatus, Watson dies, leaving Mary alone with their child to raise. Holmes comes back and to protect his friend's wife, offers to marry her. Can they make a marriage of convenience work?</p><p>It's a little choppy, but I was hoping to get the story in the style of Doyle's which is a lot of "and then Holmes leaves and does stuff and I have no idea what is going on  la-di-da!"</p><p>Totally not mine. I own nothing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Watson's as Good as Another

In the beginning of 1894, my husband, Dr. John Watson, died after a long illness, leaving behind me and our young son, William. He was a good, kind and loyal man and I could never have asked for a better husband or companion. I still miss him dearly, but I also thank the heavens for what time I had with him.

Three months later, Sherlock Holmes came crashing back into my life. I am still debating whether the man is a savior or the devil himself.

In the spring of that year, Will and I were still living in our Kensington home. What savings we had were rapidly dwindling and I began taking tutoring jobs to keep the creditors at bay. I had no family -- my parents died shortly after John and I were wed and I will confess that I was too proud to accept charity. 

It was also then that London was buzzing with the news of Roger Adair’s murder. One couldn’t turn around without being hit in the face with a salacious rumor or gossip. Not to mention, my own sense of curiosity kept me abreast of the proceedings whenever I had a spare moment.

As I was hurrying home after attempting to teach a young charge the principles of mathematics, I was crossing Oxford Street, near the end of Park Lane. It was there that I struck an elderly man, knocking down several books that he was carrying. I helped him pick up those books and with a grouchy grumble, he turned on his heel and left.

I returned to relieve my neighbor of her act of charity in watching Will while I was gone. Not five minutes after I had returned, there was a knock on the door and I opened it to see the man I had encountered earlier on Oxford Street. 

After some pleasantries and apologies for his behavior on Oxford Street, he mentioned having some books to sell to complete John’s collection. Inwardly, I sighed when he mentioned how untidy the shelf looked. John had been seeking to complete his collection for awhile now, but sadly we could never find the books. 

I turned to examine the cabinet, then turned around. Instead of an old man, it was Sherlock Holmes -- the rake. He didn’t look like he had aged at all. His figure was still robust, his dark hair was slightly straggly, giving him a romantic air and there was a merry twinkle in his eyes.

I will confess, my next action was not ladylike. 

Unlike the story _The Adventure of the Empty House_ , I did not faint. I strode across that office and slapped him hard across the face.

~*~

I should stop now and get another confession out of the way. Since _The Adventure of the Empty House_ , I am the writer behind all the post-hiatus stories. No one would ever believe that a woman would willingly follow Sherlock Holmes into the gaping jaws of danger or be capable of some of the acts detailed in the stories. Those people are fools. But they are fools with power, so it was decided that John would continue to author the stories.

I can almost hear my dear John laughing at the entire situation. I don’t imagine for a moment that he’d be angry. Just envious that he couldn’t participate in the things I have seen and done with his dear friend. 

As for my reasons? I’ll confess to needing some money at times and the stories always sold well. And I like to think that it’s keeping my husband’s spirit of adventure alive. Hopefully people who read these stories get some enjoyment out of them.

But that was much later -- years after the fact that I had just smacked Holmes across the face and was shaking in rage.

He put his hand to his cheek, which was reddening under my slap and stared at me with wide eyes.

“You utter cad,” I hissed. “How dare you return to this house after we thought you were dead?”

“But I am not,” he replied calmly. “And I thought you and Watson --”

“There is no John,” I interrupted, my voice cooling to freezing. “He died in January.”

The twinkle fled from Holmes’ eyes and it was his turn to sit down in a chair. I would have pressed brandy to his lips, if I was feeling charitable. I was not. I stared down at him in fury.

“My sympathies --” he stammered. “I didn’t realize --”

“That he died?” I spat out. “That he was suffering from a long illness since last November? It’s obvious you were doing well. So well that apparently you forgot his loyalties and didn’t bother to inform us of your existence here on Earth.” I was too angry to let him speak. Three years of unhappiness bubbled to the surface and I felt myself speaking for my deceased husband.

“Do you realize that we spent a year mourning our loss? That nearly all of London came to your memorial service? The words that were spoken? How shattered John was? It took a year to put him back together and even then he wasn’t the same. He was pale, haggard and lost. While the birth of our child may have helped smooth our the rough edges, you still could see the cracks in him.

“And then he became ill. Did Mycroft ever tell you that? That he was dying? That his final thoughts were the joy of being able to see you in the sweet hereafter again? Even though he didn’t want to leave his family behind, Providence decided it must occur.”

By this point, I was standing over him, enraged and spitting out my words like nails.

“Now you have the utter gall to return and pretend nothing happened? That you will enter this house and act like the past three years were a joke? John is not here and he was of a more forgiving nature than I am Holmes.”

At this point, Will must have sensed that his mother was agitated, because he came bounding into his father’s office. The boy was two at the time and no matter what, the light of my life. Sandy blonde hair and bright blue eyes like his father’s and the sweetest smile ever bestowed on a person.

But like all toddlers, he had no sense of decorum. And so, the door slammed open and there he was, holding his stuffed bunny and running into the room with his unsteady gait and wrapping his arms around my legs.

“Mummy!” he cried. “Who that?”

I glared at Holmes. “No one of importance,” I replied. “He is just leaving.”

To his credit. Holmes didn’t argue with me. He stood up and gathered his things. “Goodbye Mrs. Watson,” he said, sadness clouding his vision as he left my house.

I thought it’d be the last time I’d ever see that man again, which would have suited me perfectly. To abuse my husband’s loyalties like was utterly unforgivable in my opinion. 

But I had forgotten how stubborn Sherlock Holmes can be.

~*~

In the summer months following Holmes’ visit, Will and I fell on dire straits. If one could afford to leave London during the beastly hot summers, they did. And my pupils’ families could afford to do so. What they couldn’t afford was to pay me for services that were never rendered. Because of this, the summer of 1894 found me fending off creditors and making do with what scraps we had.

Thankfully, with toddlers one does not need to spend a lot of money to keep them amused. Will remained his sweet and loyal self. I, on the other hand, had frayed nerves as the wolves crept closer. I knew it was a mater of time before people came to collect on the house and Will and I would be homeless. Without family, our options were scarce. 

So I thought it was a great boon when a young doctor named Verner came with an offer to purchase John’s practice, I thanked the heavens for the good fortune. It wasn’t until he easily agreed to the highest price I could think of that my suspicions were raised.

For a moment, I took in the man’s appearance. He was impeccably dressed, with dark hair and deep brown eyes. For some reason my gut whispered one word: _Holmes_.

“Tell me something Doctor,” I said, sipping my tea quietly. “Did a certain Sherlock Holmes put you up to this?”

For a brief moment, his eyes widened in surprise, but to his credit, he hid his surprise quickly. Only a woman who’s been trained in all the social mores of society would have seen that flicker of shock. 

“Who is he?” he said respectfully. “I am simply interested in starting a new practice.”

I told him I would have to think about it and would contact him within the next three days. Once the physician left, I found myself growing hot with anger. My hands began shaking as I imagined throttling a certain “great detective.” I knew who was behind the sale and I was infuriated that he disregarded my orders to stay away and leave me and my son alone.

In my mind, Sherlock Holmes had no right or claim over my family any longer. Any ties we had died when he supposedly died. To come waltzing back into my life like some stray tomcat after how my husband mourned made me want to throw boots at him.

In the heat of anger, Will and I found ourselves strolling down Baker Street, towards a familiar destination. It had been years since I was at 221b Baker Street -- the last time being after Holmes’ supposed death as John and I sorted though his belongings. At the time, we thought his brother was in mourning, because he insisted on keeping the flat as it was, almost preserving it in amber. Little did we know Mycroft had other reasons for doing that.

I pounded on the door and Mrs. Hudson opened it. The last time I had seen her, she was sobbing at John‘s funeral. She looked extraordinarily pleased at our appearance on her doorstep.

“Mrs. Watson!” she exclaimed joyfully, bringing me into a tight hug. I couldn’t help but smile. Mrs. Hudson was always a kind and gracious hostess. 

Stooping down, she looked at Will. “And young master Will,” she said, shaking his hand. “You’re looking more and more like your father every time I see you.”

He nodded. “Cake?” he asked.

Both of us began chuckling. “You‘re just in time. I‘ve got a lemon cake with lemon curd frosting,” she replied. “Perhaps that and some milk? You look like skin and bones my dear boy.”

Will wiggled in excitement and flashed a big smile. A smile that was similar to the ones John would use to cajole me into doing something for him.

She glanced up at me. “I take it you are here to see Mr. Holmes.”

I nodded, feeling the fury simmering under my skin. 

She understood. “I will say no more,” Mrs. Hudson said. “Come, he’s upstairs. I’ll take Master Watson to have a nibble.” With that, she led my son down the hall towards the kitchen. 

I marched up the seventeen steps towards the flat. With each step, a different memory of John flooded my senses. That easygoing smile of his. When we first met, how ill Charlie was and how John was so kind and patient with him, constantly visiting my employers to ensure that the boy would be on the road to wellness. I didn’t find out until later that he had ulterior motives for visiting so frequently. Not that it would have mattered -- I found him dashing the moment I met him.

I remembered meeting Holmes for the first time and how my cheeks burned at his cavalier insults. But when John was injured at the wharf, I saw the depth of Holmes’ devotion, which was matched by John’s loyalty to him. 

We are lucky to find someone who will love us completely for who we are, flaws and all. The fact that John had two people devoted to him in that manner speaks more for his character than anything else could. Because of that, I could never deny their friendship. But I also never imagine that Holmes would abuse his friend’s loyalties in such a manner. 

I opened the door to their sitting room. There was Holmes, sitting at the table, which was set for tea service. He was dressed impeccably and his hair was neat. Even stranger, he was _clean_.

“Ah, Mrs. Watson,” he looked up at me with a smile. “So glad you could make it.”

“Mr. Holmes,” I stared at him in confusion. I expect him to be in a black mood, creating some sort of infernal chemical concoction or intensely concentrating on a case. Not hosting a tea party. Past experience taught me the man rarely ate. “May I ask you a blunt question?”

He nodded.

“You sent a Doctor Verner over to buy John’s practice did you not?” 

He pursed his lips and looked upward, thinking. “Yes,” he admitted. “I know you Mrs. Watson. You could always read people better than your husband. There’s no point in lying about that.” Holmes poured a cup of tea. “Milk?” He looked at me mildly.

I sighed in frustration. “What the devil do you want from me?” I could feel my body move towards the table and slide into the chair, but not of my own will. 

The problem with Holmes is that the man is blessed with magnetic charisma. You often find yourself doing things that you didn’t want to do -- such as sit across from him and have tea. I could feel my hands removing my gloves and hat against my better judgment.

“I was mulling it over after the young doctor visited me two days ago,” he said. “Doctor Verner is a cousin of mine and he is looking to start a practice in London. I thought it would be of use to you to sell it to him and I would help him purchase the practice.”

“Thank you for the recommendation,” I replied carefully, accepting the tea and taking a sip. 

He poured himself a cup and leaned back and flashed a smile at me. “I will consider the sale,” I replied. 

“Excellent,” he smiled at me. “I’ve noticed that you’ve hit on hard times Mrs. Watson.”

John would have perhaps gawped in awe and said, _How did you do it Holmes?_ I snorted. “Let me guess,” I retorted. “Wiggins and the Irregulars have been watching over us?”

“She is direct,” Holmes’ smile never faltered. “ If I may be direct?” He handed me a slice of cake.

“Please,” I replied, accepting the cake and taking a small bite. I nearly moaned aloud in pleasure. Mrs. Hudson’s cooking was excellent and given the empty stomach, what was given to me was ambrosia. 

Holmes smirked slightly. I ignored him and restrained myself by taking another small bite.

“Marry me.”

I nearly choked on the cake. Coughing I stared at him in shocked silence. He expression was neutral and the way he said it was as if he was discussing the purchase of the practice.

“Mr. Holmes,” I replied, wiping my mouth. “I thought we were discussing the sale of John’s practice.”

“We were,” he nodded. “But I’ve been rethinking things since my cousin’s visit and my original suggestion. Would you like to know my thoughts?”

I nodded, a small wave of dread spreading over me. I wondered if this was how John felt when Holmes would introduce a hare-brained scheme for their adventures.

“I trust the good doctor offered you a healthy sum?”

“Quite,” I replied. “It would have allowed Will and I to pay off the creditors.”

“But what about a home? You would have to move from the Kensington house.”

I nodded. “There would have been enough left for us to find a modest residence,” I replied.

“But how long would the money last?” Holmes leaned forward, pressing his fingertips together as he stared at me over them. “How long could you truly depend on tutoring young students before the creditors came again? No, this would only be enough to give you a temporary respite.”

My cheeks burned. “You do not know the future Mr. Holmes,” I replied primly. “Once the summer season is over, my charges will be back and I will be employed.”

“My dear, that only barely covers the bills and the day to day expenses,” he retorted. 

“How do you know that?” I resisted the urge to slap him across the face for exposing my shame.

A slight smile dance across his face. “You are an intelligent woman,” he retorted. “You would know how.”

I closed my eyes and cursed quietly. Of course. If Wiggins and the Irregulars were watching my movement, they would know the clientele I had, as well as the fact that the summer months had been less than robust.

He continued to speak. “Now, I have spent the past two days thinking about this and I believe that if we married, you and young Watson would be in a more secure position,” Holmes explained. “You would move into Baker Street, where you are guaranteed shelter. There would be no scrabbling to make ends meet or taking jobs that left you splattered in India ink or fending off advances from unsavory men.”

A mirthless chuckle escaped me. Of course Wiggins would report those incidents. Holmes’ information network was frighteningly extensive. I wondered if his information network informed him about John’s illness. Probably not, given that they were also at the memorial, sniffling and sobbing with everyone else.

“Why do you care so much?” I opened my eyes and stared into his. 

“You’re Watson’s wife. And you are the mother of his son. I want to ensure that his family is cared for,” he explained. “This is the most logical way. As long as I am alive, I will be able to ensure your security.”

I stared at him. It was so _Holmes_ for a proposal. John was flowers and romance, speaking plainly about his affection and how he wanted to spend the rest of his days with me. Not that I expected Holmes to woo me. Neither of us were attracted to each other.

I began to laugh. “You are telling me that my best form of security is to marry you?” I nearly snorted as I giggled. “A consulting detective prone to indulging in the seven percent solution too much? Who uses his quarters as an indoor shooting range? A man who experimented on poor Gladstone constantly? Heaven knows what you would do to young Will. To be frank, you are the last person I would consider for safe harbor.”

A look of pain passed over his face and a pang of regret pricked me. But what I spoke was the truth. Baker Street was no place for a young boy. Looking about the room, I could instantly spot several hazards for a curious toddler.

“I can see I’ve said too much,” Holmes said softly. “Will you at least consider the sale to my cousin?”

I nodded. “Yes,” I replied. “I will inform Doctor Verner that his terms are acceptable.” I stood up. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I must be going. Thank you for the recommendation.”

“Goodbye Mrs. Watson,” he replied. 

I glanced down at him. For a moment, I thought I saw a shadow of sadness pass over his expression, but I wasn’t certain. I left the flat, collected Will from Mrs. Hudson, who pressed a cake into my hands and some meat pies, then headed back home.

I should have been content. Our debts were about to be paid off, Will and I would be able to find more modest lodgings and with summer ending, I would find work again. If all this was true, why did I feel like a cad?

~*~

Ever since John’s death, I didn‘t sleep well. Much of it had to do with the fact that I missed him dearly -- his weight and presence next to me, the soft snores he would emit and how I always awoke with his arms wrapped around my waist, his moustache tickling my ears and neck. 

Add to that money worries and one can understand how I got dark circles under my eyes and an unhealthy tea habit in the morning. 

But after meeting with Holmes, a guilty feeling also plagued my slumber. It was that look of sadness and pain that had briefly passed over his face when I rejected his proposal. Once I was away from Holmes, I had time to review the entire visit. 

I realized that in my anger with him, I neglected to notice that he was also grieving. What was worse was the fact that his grief was entirely new to him, whereas for Will and me, it was now a dull ache.

I also knew Holmes’ nature. He was as tenacious as a terrier. Whether I wanted it or not, he would be a presence in our lives. He had stated as much. Given his contacts with the Yard, Mycroft, the Irregulars and who knows who else, he would be getting reports every single day about our whereabouts. Even if we moved from London, I didn’t doubt for a minute that he would be tracking us. Not that I wanted to move from London. It was my home and no Great Detective -- no matter how irritating -- would make me leave.

I rolled around in bed, plagued by memories of John complaining and worrying about Holmes -- his eating and sleeping habits as well as his personality tics. There was many a time when he dragged Holmes to our house under one context or another to force feed him a meal or two or to shove him in the bathroom and dunk him in a tub of hot water. 

I remembered when I was with child and confided my fears on being a good parent to our baby. John chuckled and told me, “Mary, we cared for Holmes for years. A baby will be easier. At least a baby doesn’t do chemical experiments on Gladstone.”

Little did he know about Will’s diapers at the time.

I rose out of bed and padded down to the kitchen. Pouring myself a glass of water, I shaved off a thin slice of Mrs. Hudson’s cake and nibbled on it. Staring out the window, I could see the streetlamps glowing through the smog.

I was a widow. With a child. And next to nothing to my name. In short, I was less marriageable than a dolly mop. Holmes was right, damn him. I could live from the day to day, but there was no promise of security for Will if something should happen to me.

Finishing off the last crumb of cake, I knew what my answer was going to be. I headed to bed for a few hours’ rest. In the morning, I woke much too early as I heard Will singing loudly and throwing his stuffed bunny around. 

Most of the day was spent dealing with chores, wrangling a child, and an odd job helping with cleaning to earn a few coins. Before I knew it, it was nearly teatime before Will and I made our way back to Baker Street.

I greeted Mrs. Hudson, who gladly whisked Will away for more milk and treats once he graced her with another smile and a sweet, “How do you do? You look lovely today.” With that, I headed upstairs to speak with Holmes.

He was sitting at the table, yet again, with tea service in front of him. Surprisingly, he was still clean and dressed neatly. His dark eyes had a mischievous gleam to them.

“Mrs. Watson,” he said.

“Mr. Holmes,” I replied. “I have been thinking over your proposal.”

“And?” a smile threatened to spill over his lips as he poured a cup of tea and placed a crumpet on the plate across from him.

“I have a few conditions before I agree to this,” I sat down and sipped the tea. Taking a deep breath, I rattled them off before he could interrupt. “You will not do chemical experiments on my child. Any and all chemical experiments will be done out of reach of my son -- preferably in what used to be John’s old medical office. Said room will be locked, so Will can not have access to it. 

“You will not do target practice inside the house. There will be no smoking in the house. No cursing or crude language. You will bathe. Violin playing will be limited to reasonable hours -- that is, not at three in the morning. There will be no bartering of clothing. You will keep this flat in a tidy condition or else I will clean it and burn all your notes in the process. 

“Will and I will sleep in John’s room upstairs -- unless you have messed it up to an unrecognizable state, in which case, we will take your room. And lastly, there will be no imbibing of the seven percent solution or else I will take my child and leave for the darkest reaches of Africa, where I am certain you do not have influence,” I took a sip of my tea and nibbled on my crumpet. “Are we agreed?”

He looked at me, leaning back and folding his arms. “Agreed on the chemical experiments and moving them to the office. I recently moved things there because of space reasons. Where else will I do target practice? It’s easier for me to do it here than travel to the country. As for smoking, if you are to take away my seven-percent-solution, which I willingly giving up, then it is positively inhuman to cut off of all of his addictions.

“I will try to watch my language, but there are no promises of my words in the heat of the moment. I will attempt to maintain a neat appearance. I may need the violin -- it helps me think to play music, and I think at all hours. I don’t think I can fit into yours or Will’s clothing -- is his name Will?” Holmes had become momentarily distracted. “William Watson? What were you thinking?”

Before I could interrupt, Holmes continued. “I’ll keep my case notes and items in the spare office with the chemical experiments, thus keeping the sitting room in a reasonably tidy condition for you and your child. Watson’s rooms are pristine. All that will be needed is for Mrs. Hudson to do a little dusting and some fresh sheets and you’re ready to move in. As for the last point with the seven-percent solution, I believe I addressed it with the smoking issue.”

I took a deep breath. Four objections out of the list. Not bad for most people. But I was dealing with Holmes. I wasn’t about to surrender meekly. 

“Limit the smoking to the office,” I replied. “Please try to make a concentrated effort on language. We have a toddler roaming around the flat. You’ll be impressed by the boy’s memory and mimicry skills and perhaps find it funny to hear him curse. I will not. If I wake up to your violin playing -- or worse, if Will does -- I will confiscate it from you. Do it enough times and I will burn it. With the target practice, that is non-negotiable.”

“What if I limited it to the office?” he asked.

I sighed. It was better than the sitting room, I thought to myself. “Add more plaster to ensure that no bullets go through the wall,” I replied. “Then we can revisit the issue. If you care so much for John‘s family, you‘ll see that indoor target practice is not a safe hobby.” Not to mention the fact that John mentioned Holmes couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn in daylight -- that increased the odds of something disastrous occurring.

“Touché,” he replied. “We will revisit this issue.”

I could feel a small wave of victory pass over me as he agreed to my terms. “As for William Watson -- be thankful we didn’t name him Sherlock Watson.”

“Why not?” he looked a little disappointed.

I couldn’t myself. A smile crept cross my face, despite my desire to remain serious. This was a business negotiation, after all. He must have seen it, because a faint smirk flew past his lips.

“It’s William Sherlock Watson,” I replied. 

He nodded. “Excellent choice,” Holmes said crispy, apparently understanding the reasoning behind it. “Your terms are acceptable,” he replied, raising his teacup for a toast.

I toasted him. “One more thing,” I added. “We are never taking your name.”

There was another nod. “I wouldn’t dream of it,“ he said. “William Sherlock Watson Holmes? That’s a terrible mouthful right there. And you are always going to be Watson‘s wife. This is merely a business arrangement.”

“At last, something we agree on,” I replied, sipping my tea.

It wasn’t until later that I realized Holmes knew I would accept his proposal and prepared for my list of demands. Mrs. Hudson told me after the wedding that prior to my first visit, Holmes had been furiously cleaning and moving things. He even hired plasterers to add to the walls of the office, doubling the thickness and adding metal plates underneath to stop bullets.

He anticipated my demands and knew that even though we were in a precarious situation, I was not going to agree to this scheme unless he made concessions. And these were probably conditions he could easily acquiesce to or prepare for. What did I get in return? An overgrown man-child with a sense of curiosity and impulse control issues that rivaled most toddlers. Who obviously needed a replacement mother hen and realized that before anyone else did.

This is why I say I’m not sure if Sherlock Holmes was my savior or Satan himself.

~*~

Before I continue with the wedding and the shenanigans of learning to live with Holmes I suppose I should make it clear that dear Will wasn’t just dropped into the situation without some warning.

If Holmes had his way, we would have been married the day after I accepted his proposal and moved in a week later. How I would have accommodated my things in his house, I do not know. I suspect he would have just sold or thrown it out and forced Will and I to mold into his life.

If you can’t tell by now, I’m not exactly known for acquiescing easily to Holmes. I demanded at least a month to get my house in order and move some of our items into Baker Street before there would be a wedding. Not that I wanted an extravagant wedding. That would have been gauche beyond belief. Besides, the wedding wasn’t a celebration for me. It was a business arrangement.

Not that I brought much -- I sold off most of the furniture, save for a few small items and our clothing. Mrs. Hudson had assured me that she had everything I could ever want. What furniture I did save, I insisted on using to replace some items -- like the settee that had scorch marks on it from an experiment and John’s chair. I couldn’t bear to part with it.

I did sell the practice to Verner and I used that money to pay off the collectors. What was left I put into a rainy-day fund for Will. Even though Holmes huffed that any child of Watson’s would be placed under his care and want for nothing, I knew that his job as a consulting detective wasn’t as reliable as other occupations. And if something should happen to Holmes, there was no guarantee that Mrs. Hudson would be so generous as to allow us to live there without paying rent.

During the month before the wedding, Will and I visited Baker Street nearly every day. Mrs. Hudson had already fallen under the thrall of Will, but I was nervous about Holmes meeting the boy. I will confess, I tried to postpone the meeting of the two for as long as possible. 

Visions of chemical explosions danced in my head. In my mind, Holmes was going to be the typical father -- vaguely neglectful, except that Will would probably be playing with the jackknife he used to secure correspondence or a skull.

But my luck soon ran out. Mrs. Hudson couldn’t remain at the flat the entire time to watch Will, so one day, I found myself without her and with Holmes. The worst part is that I needed to leave for a few hours to help teach a pupil. There was no one else who I could quickly find to watch Will.

I was fretting the situation, while Will and Holmes stared in fascination at each other. Holmes was laying on the tiger-skin rug, while Will sat on the ground. We had just arrived and I was mentally cursing the fates that decided to allow Mrs. Hudson to leave the flat without meeting up with me.

The two of them had done perfunctory introductions when Holmes noticed my agitated state.

“Something wrong Mrs. Watson?” he asked.

I nodded. “I have a tutoring session in an hour and unfortunately, Mrs. Hudson is not here to watch Will,” I said. 

“Leave the boy with me,” Holmes said.

I stared at him. 

“What?” he said a bit defensively, as Will began investigating a table. I removed the knife sitting on it and placed it on the mantel and stared at Holmes. He at least had the courtesy to look sheepish at his error. 

“Are you mad?” I replied. “Knowing you, I’d come home to find him playing with the jackknife or tossing that skull around, while you were obsessing over a case.”

Holmes arched an eyebrow. “You doubt my skills as a parent?”

I didn’t bother to dignify that with an answer.

He glanced over at Will, who was yanking books off the bookshelf with great gusto. 

“My dear Mrs. Watson,” he said, sitting up and scooping Will up in his arms before depositing him on the rug. “You’re going to have to leave him alone with me sooner or later. We are going to be wed in a month, and after that, he is going to be living with us.”

“Tiger,” Will said thoughtfully, before patting the head of the rug and roaring at it.

I rubbed my brow. The move and sale, along with tutoring jobs had been stressful. He was right. Sooner or later he would be left alone with the boy and now was as a good of time as any.

“Fine,” I replied, donning my hat. “But remember, he’s not just my son. He’s John’s son. And you vowed -- not to me, but yourself -- that you would protect us. Just remember that before you do anything rash.”

I kissed Will, who seemed so excited that he was staying with the funny man with wild hair and the tiger rug that he didn’t notice me heading out of the flat with some trepidation.

The tutoring lesson wasn’t as good as it could have been. My mind was distracted with visions of Will drinking odd concoctions Holmes had created. Nothing would “harm” my son per se, but the effects would probably be distressing. Much like his experiments on Gladstone.

I’ll admit I ended the lesson early and then rushed back to Baker Street, afraid of what could happen. Will could have gotten into an accident, Holmes could have taught him firearms, then they would head to the hospital -- I hoped Holmes would have enough sense to leave a note for me if they had to go to the hospital.

When I arrived, the entire area was eerily quiet. No sounds of Holmes playing his violin, no shouting, nothing. I ran up the steps with my heart pounding and fear bubbling in my blood. They must have gone to the hospital or the doctor, I thought to myself. 

I burst through the door of the flat and looked around. The door to Holmes’ office was open and the sight there made me pause and smile slightly.

There was Holmes and Will, sitting side by side at his chemical bench overlooking Baker Street. Will appeared enraptured as Holmes handed him a beaker. 

“Now, when you pour this in, what happens?” he asked. “Be careful though, you don’t want to spill this.” Holmes gently held the bottom of the beaker as Will slowly poured the solution into a Erlenmeyer flask.

Will started giggling as the solution bubbled slightly and changed color. “BLUE!” he shrieked. “BLUE!”

“Do you know what that means?” Holmes asked patiently.

“No,” Will giggled. “BLUE!”

Before Holmes could begin an explanation that would easily fly over the head of a two year old boy, I coughed slightly. Both heads turned in my direction. 

“Mummy!” Will attempted to hurl himself off the bench, but Holmes scooped him up and put him down. He scrambled over to me and hugged me tightly. I picked him up. “Were you a good boy?” I asked.

He nodded. 

“Was Mr. Holmes a good boy?” I asked, glancing over at him.

There was a solicitous cough and an attempt from Holmes to look innocent. I smiled slightly. If the man had a halo, I wouldn’t be surprised if it was dented and battered beyond recognition.

“I know I violated one of the terms of our agreement,” he said, scratching his head. “But the boy just seemed so curious and interested in my treatises on chemicals that I’d thought I’d give him a demonstration.”

I snorted. “Holmes,” I replied. “He’s two. He can’t even spell his own name.”

“Doesn’t mean he can’t learn something early,” Holmes replied a bit defensively.

I chuckled. “You have a point,” I conceded.

This isn’t to say that Holmes was the most engaged parent. Most of the time he was too distracted by a case or some research to even notice if Will was in the room. I did catch Will playing with Holmes’ chemistry set, nearly burning a hole in the table while the Great Detective was involved in writing a monograph on fingerprinting. 

As I became more involved in Holmes’ adventures (how that happened, I will explain later) Will spent much of his time with Mrs. Hudson and a nanny that we were able to hire. As he got older, Wiggins and the Irregulars often took him under their wing to offer an unorthodox education of life on London’s streets. 

The Irregulars were very protective of my son. I suspect that before Wiggins was even allowed to take Will out with them, he had a stern discussion with Holmes about what was acceptable risk with John’s son.

Then there was Uncle Mycroft. Mycroft seemed more patient with Will, completely willing to take him on outings to the zoo and other places. It wasn’t until years later that I discovered Mycroft was using Will as a cover to retrieve sensitive information from his information network. No one would suspect a small boy of espionage, I found out later.

Mycroft was lucky I didn’t discover this until Will was a young man. Otherwise he would have had to deal with not only me, but Holmes, who was as unamused as I was about the whole situation when we found out later.

By the time Will was ready for school, he had the most unconventional education. It may have been patchwork, but I am certain there was no boy better educated in firearms, chemical reactions to bodily fluids, pick pocketing or espionage. In short, he was well-suited for adjusting to life among his classmates.

~*~

Since I’ve been telling the truth about what happened between Holmes and I post-Great Hiatus, I have another confession to make. The wedding was not a small, quiet ceremony like I would have preferred. Holmes, in his stubborn ways, demanded a proper wedding ceremony.

“You have got to be joking,” I flatly stated one day when I heard his plans. “The date in a few weeks and do you know how incredibly tacky it would be to have me wed not one year after John’s death?”

Holmes plucked his violin and stared up at me with the most innocent stare. It was similar to stares I received from Will when I would ask him to put away his toys or to stop hitting Mrs. Hudson with his ball. 

“My dear Mrs. Watson,” he said in the most logical of tones, as if he was explaining the importance of brushing teeth, bathing and wearing clothes to a small toddler. “A wedding is a statement, is it not?”

I nodded. 

“And you do realize that statements are important?”

I nodded again, growing frustrated. I didn’t need a lecture on wedding traditions. I needed him to tell me why he had reserved St. James’ Church and also planned an ostentatious wedding. “Most of the time, weddings are a statement that a man and a woman are in love and want to celebrate that love,” I retorted. “Remember, we said this was a business arrangement.”

“You, I and our closer associates realize this,” Holmes said, putting the violin to his chin and flourishing the bow. “However, other people don’t. And it will be important for them to realize that you and your son are important to me. So much so that I’m willing to pay for an ostentatious wedding. So much so that you have my protection, the protection of the Yard and even my brother, also known as the British government.” He began playing Mendelssohn’s Wedding March from A Midsummer Night’s Dream. 

“What kind of message do you think that would send to the criminal element in London?” he continued, as he played, not missing a beat. “That you and Will are not to be trifled with. If anything should happen to you or your son, swift and brutal justice will rain down upon them.”

“Or that we’re perfect pawns to capture for leverage,” I retorted.

“My dear,” he said smoothly. “There hasn’t been anyone powerful enough to do that since Moriarty, and I ensured that he went to the bottom of the falls, not I.”

The cad’s argument was sound, I had to admit. Weddings weren’t just displays of affection. In the least romantic sense, they are also a public statement that indicates a binding of power, protection and resources. I remembered how the Yard rallied around John and I when he returned from Reichenbach Falls, often visiting and sending an extra Bobbie around to watch over the house in the first year. I learned later that Mycroft used his information network to also keep watch over our home. And that was simply because John was Holmes’ closest ally. What would they do if something should happen to Holmes’ wife, or heaven forbid, his friend’s son? Holmes was right -- fiery vengeance would rain down on London’s now-disorganized underworld. 

And that’s how I found myself at St. James’ Church one October morning, dressed in a violet gown and train. The attendees were a rather diverse group ranging from the respectable (Mycroft, Mrs. Hudson, a few members of the upper echelons of society) to the downright odd (Wiggins and the Irregulars -- who were virtually unrecognizable in dress clothing they nicked earlier). Of course Scotland Yard’s finest also attended. 

Holmes, to his credit, was perfectly and appropriately dressed in a morning suit, waist coat and top hat. His dark hair was neatly combed and he actually shaved the scruff off of his face. Will was dressed in a matching suit, which he kept tugging at the collar. Staring at the two of them, I couldn’t help but wonder who would get rumpled first. Between my son and Holmes, it was too close to call.

Despite the celebratory air that day, my mind kept wandering back to John and our wedding. Seven years ago, I met him and six years ago we were wed. I remembered being nervous before everything, afraid of the future and what could happen.

What if he was untrue? What if we stopped loving each other? What if he died before I did? What if Holmes moved in with us? I remembered those questions plaguing me and shaking like a leaf as I was about to walk down the aisle. 

I remembered taking my father’s arm, feeling his strong presence, even thought it was a small comfort. Then the doors opened and my eyes lit on John. Seeing the expression of love, happiness and loyalty in his face calmed me instantly. It would be all right, I realized. No matter what, everything would be fine.

This time things were different. There was no one to hold my arm and steady me when the church doors opened. No blue eyes greeted me with warmth and affection. Instead, brown eyes lit on my face before bouncing about the room to take in information about everyone and everything. The smile on Holmes’ face was crooked and slightly sardonic.

We both knew that the entire thing was a sham. I kept waiting for the heavens to open and strike me down dead. It didn’t happen. 

I don’t remember the vows. I know I said them, my mouth dry, but my hands steady. I remember hearing Holmes say them, never stammering or stuttering. I remember Holmes sliding the ring on my finger -- the same ring John had given me at our wedding. No matter what, in both our eyes, I was still John’s wife.

I remember the minister saying, “You may now kiss the bride.” There was a brief flicker of panic in Holmes’ eyes -- I’m sure I mirrored his expression. But he took my hands in his and leaned forward, acting as if this was the most natural thing for him in the entire world. And I followed his lead.

His lips were chapped, lacking the protection from the elements that a moustache would offer. It was the lightest of kisses -- more of a chaste brushing of lips against each other. The duration was perfectly proper, yet also an indication of affection and possession. Holmes had an uncanny ability to perform for an audience. If people doubted our bond before, this ceremony obliterated it.

A wedding luncheon was held at the Royale, Holmes’ favorite restaurant. Without a doubt, it was one of the more awkward parties of my life. Amidst all the small talk, I could hear the gossip, the undercurrent of _Isn’t this sudden? How curious that the widow of Holmes’ closest friend marries Holmes the minute he returns to London. It makes one wonder doesn‘t it? Makes one wonder how close the three of them were. You know the Bible -- “If brethen dwell together, and one of them die, and have no child, the wife of the dead shall not marry without until a stranger: Her husband‘s brother shall go in unto her and take her to him to wife and perform the duty of an husband‘s brother unto her.”_

Holmes must have sensed my discomfort, because I could feel him sidle up to me with a glass of champagne.

“Smile darling,” he whispered in my ear. “This is supposed to be the happiest day of our lives.”

I could feel my smile become brittle. “I can hear them --” I muttered.

He emitted a low chuckle and glanced over at me. “The meaning behind the words?”

I nodded. 

Holmes gently placed a hand at the small of my back. “It doesn’t matter,” he said, sipping his drink. “The statement has been made. Just because they may gossip doesn’t mean that they won’t protect you and Will.” His eyes lit over to Will, who was wandering among the group, charming the random woman with a sweet smile. Mrs. Hudson was following not a meter behind him, watching like a mother hen. 

Noticing Holmes’ eyes on him, Will waved to him and ran over to me. “Mummy!” he screeched, as I embraced him.

“Are you having fun?” Holmes asked, picking up the boy. 

Will nodded. “Cake?” he asked.

“In a bit my dear boy,” Holmes ruffled his hair. “Are you ready to go on holiday with us?”

Both Will and I must have looked surprised. “What?” I choked out.

“Didn’t I mention?” He glanced over at us, eyebrows arching slightly. “Mycroft said we could use his country estate in Chichester for a holiday. I asked Mrs. Hudson to accompany us to help care for Will.”

“Animals?” Will asked.

Holmes chuckled. “There will be animals,” he said, then glanced at me. “Is this acceptable?”

Four eyes focused on me. Two were bright blue and full of excitement. The other two were wide and innocent looking. If I could have punched him, I would have. Instead, I chuckled. 

“A holiday sounds lovely,” I replied, downing my drink in one gulp. “Frankly, I think our new family could use some time together.”

~*~

Chichester in October is lovely. The leaves had just begun to turn color and the sunny days were perfect for wandering around Mycroft’s estate, reading and getting lost in other idle pleasures. 

Mycroft’s country estate, while not enormous, was very comfortable and the height of elegant fashion. It was Spartan -- everything there was essential for comfortable living or mental stimulation. Nothing was frivolous and what was there was the height of quality.

Mrs. Hudson, Will and I had a splendid time in Chichester. Mrs. Hudson reveled in the fact that she didn’t have to worry about cooking and cleaning for two weeks, since Mycroft had servants there to do that instead. Will spent most of his time dragging Mrs. Hudson or I out to go hiking through the woods or play about outdoors. He tracked in so much mud to the estate that I suspect if Mycroft wanted to plant potatoes indoors, he could have. 

Holmes, on the other hand, tested my patience. He often prowled around the estate in a dark mood, discordant notes emitting from his violin. Thankfully we were in the country, so I was able to convince him to go outside to practice his shooting. Not that he was good at it in any case. John was correct -- the man couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn in the daylight. 

While Mrs. Hudson was busy keeping Will amused, I often found myself the target of Holmes’ ennui. He often challenged me to games of chess or would deduce what activities Will and I were up to during the day.

“I take it Will was taxing your patience with demanding that you play the Jabberwock?” Holmes’ eyes lit on me as I entered the house, looking slightly frazzled.

“Yes Holmes,” I replied wearily. “I take it you heard him screaming ‘Snicker-Snack’? Or is it the leaves in my hair because I was beheaded?”

He pouted slightly. “Watson at least would’ve played along.”

“John was a better man than either of us deserved,” I shot back, before heading outside again armed with croquet mallets and balls. “Won’t you come and enjoy the weather for a bit?” I called to him.

A pouting silence greeted me and I ignored the tantrum, choosing to head outside to enjoy the day.

Thankfully I didn’t have to deal with the pouting for too long. That afternoon Chichester constables came to meet with Holmes about a case that occurred in the town. He met with them privately, while Will, Mrs. Hudson and I enjoyed the sunny afternoon.

I think that prior to the wedding, Holmes didn’t believe Will or I would be fully integrated into his life. But I also had the same belief. My vision was that he would continue with his consulting detective work, while Will and I continued to live our lives in a separate sphere that was located in the same building.

There’s a Yiddish phrase that roughly translates to “Man plans, God laughs.” Whatever mine and Holmes’ plans were, I suspect that the higher powers were laughing hysterically at them.

It started that night, after Will went to bed. Holmes left the estate, muttering about needing to go investigate a scene at the local pub. I remained awake, working on my needlepoint and chatting with Mrs. Hudson. After a few hours, she retired for the evening.

As the clock chimed midnight, I became worried about Holmes. True, he didn’t say he when he would be back, but something about this entire situation worried me. I knew it wouldn’t be proper at all, but my instincts told me that I should go to the pub and, at the very least, ensure Holmes’ safety.

 _What would John do?_ I thought to myself. The answer was clear and simple -- get his pistol and go to the pub to at least offer aid. 

I sighed heavily and put the needlepoint down. A quick investigation of the estate yielded the results I was looking for -- I found a rather heavy revolver in Mycroft’s office. A cursory check found that it was loaded and I then pocketed it. Donning a cloak, I roused a servant and took a carriage into town.

We stopped at the pub and I asked the coachman to wait for my return. It was then that I heard a scuffle in the alley behind the pub. I snuck around the building and found Holmes surrounded by four ruffians. Part of me wanted to flee -- this was no place for a lady and I didn’t know what the outcome would be.

Then I saw one of the men pull a knife and lunge for Holmes. He dodged the lunge, but his back was unguarded. One thug took advantage of it and punched him in the kidneys, causing him to double over in pain. As Holmes staggered, the same thug delivered a vicious kick to the stomach and he fell to his knees groaning in pain. 

Despite my fears, I pulled the revolver out and stepped forward. If I was more romantic and sentimental, I would say I imagined that John’s spirit was moving me to take action. That’s not quite true. It was more the fear of explaining to John how I watched his best friend get killed when I met him in the hereafter. 

“Gentlemen,” I said clearly, hoping that my hands weren’t shaking and my voice didn’t give away the fear coursing through my veins.

Five heads whipped up and looked at me. “This isn’t a place for a lady,” one of the men said. “You best be going home dearie.”

“You should be at home,” Holmes rasped, his eyes blazing with indignation. “What the devil are you doing here?”

I shook my head, hoping my legs would remain steady. “I was worried,” I replied. “It’s nice to see that a woman’s intuition can be correct.”

One of the men looked at me and licked his lips like a wolf sizing up a small lamb. “No matter boys,” he said. “Once we’re done with this boy, we can have some fun with the little missy here.”

I didn’t even respond. I pulled the pistol out of my pocket, cocked it and aimed at the man.

“Oh, the cat’s got claws,” he chuckled. 

I fired the gun. It made a terrific noise and my arm snapped back from the recoil. I saw that man fall to the ground, clutching his shoulder. Taking advantage of their surprise, I swung my arm around and fired off two more shots, hitting one man in the arm and the other in the leg. They fell to the ground howling in pain. 

The fourth man stood there, eyes wide with panic. I kept the gun trained on him. Holmes leapt to his feet and soon made his way to my side. 

“Excellent work Mrs. Watson,” he muttered. “Where did you learn to shoot like that?”

“John taught me after Reichenbach,” I replied. “We didn’t know what enemies were out there and he wanted me to be able to defend myself if he was away.”

Before he could say more, we heard the sound of whistles as constables rounded the corner, surrounding all of us. The rest of the night was spent answering questions and watching Holmes pomp around as he explained how he deduced that those four men were the ones behind the murder of a local farmer. 

He performed and preened, commanding everyone’s attention like a diva. Quite honestly, I was happy for that -- the more attention was focused on him, the less likely people would question who I was and what my role was in the entire mess.

I thought I was about to escape unscathed when Holmes said we were going to be going back to the house.

“Who is your companion?” the inspector asked.

Holmes glanced at me. My eyes widened in panic. I didn’t want to be part of this, but I couldn’t abandon him.

“No one of import--” I started, but he quickly cut me off. 

“This is my wife, Mrs. Watson,” Holmes said calmly and clearly. “We were married a week ago.”

“Mrs. Watson?” the inspector’s eyebrows shot up in confusion. “As in Doctor Watson?”

I colored under the inspector’s gaze. Holmes’ chin tipped up defiantly and he fixed the inspector with an icy glare. The man shrank under Holmes’ glaze.

“Mrs. Watson is her own woman,” Holmes said imperiously. “I have been blessed to have her as my companion. Quite frankly, I consider myself so lucky that I didn‘t bother to quibble on the name.”

And with that, we left.

~*~

“What the devil were you thinking coming after me?” Holmes glared at me once we arrived at the estate. The ride back to the estate had been a silent one. I could easily tell he wasn’t pleased that I had come out to help him. Honestly, I was also too tired and irritated that I had to go retrieve him to engage in a conversation.

Dawn was beginning to break when we arrived at the house. Both of us were in the drawing room, glasses of Scotch in hand to warm us both from the autumn chill. 

“I was thinking you were in trouble,” I retorted. “And I was proven correct.”

“You have a son,” he replied. “If you became injured --” Holmes’ voice trailed off, implying the _or killed_ part. “Will would have no parent. Especially if something happened to both of us.”

“And if something happened to you, Will and I would be back to the same position we were when you returned to our lives,” I spat out. “Call this protecting my investment.”

Before he could say any more, I stalked off to the kitchen and opened the icebox. Chipping away some ice, I put it in a bucket with a towel and headed back into the drawing room. Handing him the bucket, I took a seat across from him. 

“Ice,” I said curtly. “For your bruises.”

He began putting hunks of ice into the towel. Wrapping up the towel, he place it on a rather large bruise blossoming under his cheek. 

“Now, unless you would like to berate me for something else, I am going to bed,” I said.

He shook his head. I quickly scrawled a note for Mrs. Hudson to let her know I would be sleeping in and headed upstairs. Sliding the note under her door, I went to bed.

I awoke by lunch and after a quick tidying-up, I headed downstairs for lunch. Mrs. Hudson and Will were there, but Holmes was absent. Mrs. Hudson said something about finding him in a sulky mood when she came down for breakfast. After breakfast he left for town, not saying when he would return.

I shrugged. No matter -- he was in one of his dark moods and I was of no mind to humor him. Because it was a rainy day, I decided to spend my time reading and amusing Will.

“He can be such a sourpuss at times,” Mrs. Hudson told me during tea, when Holmes hadn’t returned. “He was muttering this morning about how last night was no place for a lady.”

“If I didn’t follow my instincts, he would have been gravely injured, or possibly worse,” I snorted. 

Mrs. Hudson’s face was humorless. “Yes, but he also is right -- you have to think of young Will,” she replied, sipping her tea. “Do you think that your husband would still go gallivanting about if he was alive now?”

I leaned back in my chair and thought. Glancing over at Will, I found him being excessively generous in spreading jam on one of his scones. The actions mirrored his father perfectly, causing the breath to catch in my throat. 

“Mrs. Hudson,” I replied calmly. “Knowing John, he would.”

“You would allow it?”

I was getting more irritated with everyone questioning my motives. “Mrs. Hudson,” I replied curtly, “two things: Why are we not asking Mr. Holmes this question, since he is now responsible for a wife and child?“

“I can tell I’ve upset you,“ she said softly, but I mowed her down with my next sentence. 

“Secondly,“ I said testily, “there is no point in arguing over what I would do in a situation that doesn’t exist. John is not here. I am. I went to protect Holmes because he is no use to me as a dead man.”

“It’s nice to know you do have some regard for my body,” I heard Holmes say behind me. I craned my neck around and saw him standing in the doorway. 

“Holmes!” Will shouted before scrambling down from his chair and running over for a hug. 

Holmes embraced the boy. “Is it time for tea?”

“Jam!” Will nodded, taking his hand and dragging him over to the table.

Holmes took his place next to the boy, who handed him an excessively jammed-up scone.

“He takes after his father,” Holmes said, his lips quirking up in a smile before he molested the scone with his mouth. Inwardly I cringed. The man’s table manners were barbaric among familiar company.

I snorted, but said nothing.

“So how has your day been Mr. Holmes?” Mrs. Hudson asked sweetly.

He shrugged, accepting a cup of tea from Mrs. Hudson. “I had to return to town,” he said, licking a smear of jam out of the corner of his mouth. “The inspector wanted to go over the night’s incident.” Holmes’ eyes fixed on me. “He did say he was impressed by your skills, Mrs. Watson.”

I nodded and sipped my tea. “As I’ve said before, John taught me how to shoot a gun after your vanishing act.” The last two words were said with a bit of bile. “He was a very good marksman.”

Holmes nodded. “I’m more impressed that you were able to use the Webley, given its weight and heft,” he said. “Did you also return it to Mycroft’s office?”

I nodded again. “Also cleaned and in perfect condition,” I replied. 

He looked at me with what I thought was a bit of admiration. “Really?”

I nodded. “John taught me everything on how to handle a revolver. A Webley is no problem, despite its weight. That’s the only gun I was trained on.”

Will looked up and his face split into a jam-filled grin. “Done!” he yelled, before sliding off the chair and running away.

I was about to go after him when Mrs. Hudson stopped me. “I’ve got him,” she said, glancing between the two of us. “I have a feeling you two have more to discuss.”

I heard the two bound out the door and then felt the weight of Holmes’ gaze on me. I glanced over at him and an uneasy silence filled the room. I refused to say anything. I was already irritated by the morning’s lecture from Holmes and Mrs. Hudson’s criticism didn’t improve my mood. 

“You really think John would have followed me, despite having a son and wife?” he asked after a long silence.

I nodded. “It’s who he was,” I replied slowly. “His loyalty to you was unquestioned. It would have been as futile as trying to stop the tide.”

“I wouldn’t let him follow,” Holmes said thoughtfully. “A family is too big of a stake.”

“Yet you didn’t mind it when it was only John and I,” I retorted. “And he was willing to follow you to the grave at Reichenbach.”

“I couldn’t let him do that,” Holmes snapped. “Why do you think he was sent back? It wasn’t Moriarty’s minions. I forged that message because I knew I was going to meet Moriarty at the falls. I didn’t want Watson there. He had you waiting for him.”

It would have been touching, except I was too irritated to accept his words. “What about the past cases?” I retorted. “The cases when he would come home bruised and battered or be gone for days battling ruffians with you? You didn’t worry about him or me then?”

“You’re a grown woman,” he said. “You can care for yourself. A child changes everything. And you never objected before.”

“Ironic that,” I replied, my irritation growing. “Since I was caring for Will alone after John died, yet you think I’m unable to do a competent job without your intervention.” I studied his impassive expression.

“What is bothering you?” he asked flatly.

“What is bothering me? The fact that I saved your bloody hide and have yet to get thanks for it,” I snapped, surprised at the emotion bubbling forth. “The fact that I made one decision that ended fairly well and apparently everyone here thinks I was a fool. Yet, if John did such an action, he would be considered a hero and be showered with praise.” 

The words tumbled out of my mouth like a mudslide. I couldn’t prevent the simmering ire from boiling over. As quickly as I could, my mind leapt in front of my mouth and I bit my tongue.

Holmes studied me for what seemed to be an eternity. “I understand,” he said finally. “And for the record, thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” I icily replied.

He continued to gnaw on his scone. “I also found something for you in town,” he said, digging in a pocket. He handed me a package. “Consider it a little gift.”

My eyebrows arched up, but I accepted the package. It was rather small and I had no clue as to what it could be. I began unwrapping it and found inside a small revolver with a mother-of-pearl handle. 

“It’s a Velodog,” Holmes explained. “I thought that a Webley was much too big for your hands and really, something a bit smaller could be easier to conceal and carry.”

I chuckled softly. “How considerate,” I replied. If one could describe a gun as ladylike and pretty, those adjectives would be used for this weapon. It felt lighter in my hand and fit my fingers perfectly. 

“I’m surprised Watson never got you one,” he said.

I shrugged. “Most of the time I was with him and he had his revolver,” I replied. “He wanted me to know how to use one, but didn’t think it was ladylike for me to carry a weapon with me.”

“Do you mind having one now?” I could tell he was studying my reaction closely.

I shrugged again. “It’s not shoes or jewelry, but I have a feeling that if I’m needed to save your bloody hide yet again, this will be more useful than that elephant killer,” I replied.

Holmes chewed on his lower lip. “That’s an acceptable reaction,” he said. “Maybe next time I’ll give you shoes to placate you.”

I studied him. His expression was similar to when John would reproach him. It was a mix of actual contriteness and a bit of defiance. I didn’t doubt that he was sorry to have my anger and that he thought my argument was valid, but I also knew that he would still do as his pleased, like some insouciant cat.

What could I do? The same thing John often did in those situations -- I found myself shaking my head with an exasperated smile. “Mr. Holmes, all is forgiven,” I said. “Now, I must check on Will and Mrs. Hudson.”

I could see a slight smirk cross Holmes’ face. “But just so you know for the future -- I like a slight heel with my boots and I wear a size six shoe. Chocolates are also acceptable as well as tickets to the theater and opera. I also enjoy reading novels and books are acceptable gifts.”

“Is this what you did with Watson?” he said, looking up at me as I stood.

“Depending on the infraction Mr. Holmes, John sometimes did more than just gifts,” I shot back. The sound of his laughter rang in my ears as I exited the room.

~*~

October faded into November. As the days became shorter and the weather colder, I started to think that a fall wedding was a terrible idea. Holmes never dealt well with stillness. I was familiar with his black moods -- John spoke about them and how they would last for days, despite any efforts to distract him.

Holmes would plunk on the violin listlessly and angrily, becoming snappish with me and Mrs. Hudson if we suggested a different activity. Will also didn’t deal well with the stillness either. Countless books were removed from the bookshelves and left in a pile, only to be shelved by a weary Mrs. Hudson and I. The stairs thumped loudly as the boy leaped up and down them.

Holmes attempted to snap at Will once, but seeing the boy’s face screw up in pain and watching as Will flung himself to the ground weeping hysterically made him rethink that method.

“You can’t be afraid of disciplining the boy,” I snapped at Holmes. “He’s more dramatic than Sarah Bernhardt.”

Holmes said nothing, choosing to puff on his pipe and involve himself in the newspaper. I sighed in annoyance. 

A spring wedding would have been better for all of us, I thought to myself. We would have had the outdoors to escape to when we tired of each other. But with the cold and the rain, we were trapped together in close quarters. 

“I don’t know how John tolerated it,” I remarked to Mrs. Hudson one day. “I don’t know what to do.”

She smiled at me over her cup of coffee. “How did you tolerate your husband mourning?”

I closed my eyes and reminisced. “It was difficult, but in a different way,” I replied thoughtfully. “John just lacked the energy to do more than the everyday tasks. And even then, his patient load dropped to a bare minimum. He stopped talking and chose to isolate himself in his grief.

“Holmes, to be honest, is acting like Will when I tell him he can’t have a sweet,” I said. “I could handle John. I understood John and how his mind worked. Holmes is maddening and unfathomable.”

Mrs. Hudson would have commented, but there was a minor explosion upstairs. I put down my teacup and raced upstairs. Inwardly I thanked the heavens that Will was on an excursion to the museum with Uncle Mycroft.

Bursting through the door, I saw smoke wafting out of Holmes’ office and a noxious scent wafted out of the room. Cracking open the windows I shoved the doors to the office open and witnessed Holmes beating down a fire with his jacket. 

I shrieked in terror the flames leapt up. Running into the sitting room, I grabbed some tea towels and threw them over the fire, dampening the flames. 

“What the devil just happened?” I panted out.

Holmes batted out a stray smoldering flame on his shirt. “Just a bad chemical reaction Mrs. Watson,” he replied calmly. He was covered in soot, part of his hair was singed and his dressing gown was in an even more tattered state than before. 

I surveyed the room. There was shattered glass everywhere. 

I stared at him for a moment. “Are you missing an eyebrow?” I asked.

He ran a hand over his face. “Mayhap,” he shrugged. I noticed that he was covered in minor cuts and abrasions.

I pointed to the settee. “Settee. Now,” I commanded.

He sat down, just as Mrs. Hudson knocked on the door. 

“Everything all right?” she asked. 

“There’s glass all over the office,” I said. “We’ll need a broom and dustpan and some bandages. Mr. Holmes --” I glared in his direction, “had an experiment go awry.”

Mrs. Hudson scurried downstairs and in a few moments she was back with a pitcher of towels, water, bandages, broom and dustpan. I took the bandages and water from her and she dropped the broom and dustpan on the floor. 

Muttering about how she didn’t charge enough for rent, Mrs. Hudson glared at Holmes and then swept out of the room.

I sat down next to Holmes and dampened a towel and began cleaning his face. The eyebrow wasn’t lost, thankfully, but it was badly singed.

“What the devil were you thinking?” I sighed, pulling a shard of glass out of his hair. 

“I was following up on a theory -- using chemicals to create a smoke distraction,” Holmes mumbled. “Apparently the interaction was too volatile.”

“Apparently,” I muttered, wiping more blood off his face. “You’re lucky Will wasn’t here.”

He nodded. 

I sighed and applied bandages to his small cuts and abrasions. It reminded me of the past, when John would return from a case with Holmes, bruised and battered. He would tell me about the adventure as I cleaned him and tended to his wounds. Too excited to sleep, the nursing sessions often ended in more stimulating exertions before he fell asleep sated in my arms.

Holmes sat next to me, chastened and silent. It was clear with the dark circles under his eyes that he hadn’t been sleeping well and that probably was a factor in the explosion. I gently smoothed a bandage across his cheek and smoothed his hair.

“You need another case soon,” I murmured softly. “Or else we’ll be homeless thanks to your experiments.”

A mirthless chuckle came from his lips. “That sounds very familiar,” he replied.

I chuckled softly. “Next thing you know I’ll be growing a moustache,” I replied, dabbing at his face.

That earned me a more genuine chuckle. “I certainly hope not,“ Holmes replied. A silence fell over the room as I began cleaning him up and bandaging him.

“I’ve been taking cases,” he said after awhile. “They’re just dull.”

“So you’ve decided to create explosions in the flat instead.” I arched an eyebrow. 

“Mrs. Hudson chided me while we were in Chichester -- said that as a husband and father, I need to be more responsible in my actions,” he glanced over at me.

“And this is your version of more responsible?”

Another mirthless chuckle. “It’s just boring,” he said. “Nothing but nobles and high society asking about lost jewelry or adultery matters. It’s so elementary, I don’t even need to leave the flat. The money is obscenely good and they love having the great Sherlock Holmes at beck and call, but it‘s dull.”

“What about Inspector Lestrade? Has he come by with a case recently?”

Holmes shook his head and ran a hand through his hair. “London’s underworld has become infinitely more dull and disorganized since Moriarty’s death,” he sighed. “It sounds ridiculous, but that was a worthy opponent.”

I shook my head. “No,” I said. “It makes sense. Not having an intellectual challenge causes the mind to rot.” My mind ran over solutions in my head. “I have a mercenary question for you.”

It was his turn to stare at me with a perfectly arched eyebrow.

“If something should happen to you, would Will and I be protected?” 

Holmes’ eyes looked upward as he did some calculations in his head. “Yes,” he said after a long silence. “Doing this noble frippery has accumulated some wealth -- enough for a nanny, maid and extra help for Mrs. Hudson, as well as savings if something should happen to me. As my wife, you would get my estate,” he said. “You will want for nothing. I made that promise and I will keep it.”

I smiled, impressed at his dedication to his vow. “Then I see no problem in you taking a case or two that is more intellectually stimulating,” I replied. “It’ll prevent you from creating explosions in the flat and possibly end this black mood you’ve infected the household with. And it‘s a risk I‘m willing to take.”

I stood up and handed him the broom and dustpan. “My only requirement Mr. Holmes is that you go into your office and clean up that mess.”

“Can’t the maid do it?” he asked petulantly.

I stared him down sternly. “You created the mess, you have to clean it up,” I replied. “The rules are the same for young Will and you need to be a good example as a parent.”

I settled into John’s chair and opened a novel as I heard Holmes mutter, “cheeky woman,” before heading into his office with the broom and dustpan. I couldn’t help but grin at that jibe.

~*~

Most people relish the Christmas, Boxing Day and the holidays. I dreaded them. But for different reasons that Holmes dreads them. He hates the fact that the world stills for a few days and there is no crime, no puzzles, no cases to solve. I’ve also come to dread the holidays because of Holmes’ boredom and his experiments. The fire brigade tends to get upset when they get summoned during Christmas dinner.

I hate them because of the memories of the past. I remembered my last Christmas with John and how sick he was -- unable to eat and lacking the strength to open his presents. He was so pale and emaciated, coughing frequently between attempts to speak. I remembered helping him up the stairs and getting him into bed. 

I can’t deny that I still get angry about it. I realize that nothing lasts forever and death would separate us. But three years wasn’t enough time in my opinion. Our family was too young and we should have had more time.

Because of that, every holiday puts me on edge. It reminds me of the fact that John will never see his son become a splendid young man, or that I will be able to be by his side. It’s gotten a bit easier as the years go by -- not to mention, dealing with Holmes’ experiments has created a new distraction for me, instead of dwelling on my own internal grieving.

But that Christmas was the worst one, given that it was the first Christmas without John. And Will, in his own way, broke my heart.

Holmes attempted to create a Christmas for us. There were the presents and a tree. I think he sensed my fragile state, because he tip-toed around me and kept Will distracted with various games and experiments. 

He was very generous with gifts -- Mrs. Hudson received a necklace, Will some books and toys and there were a new pair of shoes and a locket on a gold chain for me. Inside the locket was a picture of John dressed in his military uniform, as handsome as the day I had met him.

I couldn’t help but smile at the gesture. “Thank you Mr. Holmes,” I said, donning the locket. “This is a sweet gift.”

Will scrambled onto my lap and opened the locket. He stared very seriously at the picture inside and then asked, “Who’s that?”

My heart wrenched and I bit my lip to prevent the tears from falling. “That’s your father,” I said softly.

Will shook his head and pointed at Holmes. “He’s papa,” he said, quite seriously.

I glanced over at Holmes. His expression was inscrutable, but I could see a bit of sadness behind his eyes. 

How does one explain to a two-year-old boy what happened to his father? That the man he’s going to remember as being there his entire childhood is not the same man who was there at conception and birth? And not because of a lack of affection, but because of other circumstances?

I’d love to see someone try that. Because I honestly didn’t know what to tell my son -- and in terms that he could understand.

Neither of us knew what to say, so we simply changed the subject to pleasantries. But some part of me inside withered. 

The rest of the day passed -- how exactly, I don’t exactly remember. I remember feeling numb that whole day. I went through the motions of being engaged at dinner with Mycroft and pretending to enjoy the festivities, but Will’s words kept rattling around in my mind, weighing me down with sadness.

Sensing my sadness, Holmes ended everything a bit early, complaining of a headache and the fact that Will roused us as an ungodly hour. We trudged back to Baker Street and Will was put to bed with some protest -- out of the three of us, he was the only one who wanted the festivities to continue. 

I was thankful to be able to undress and prepare for bed. Looking through my items, I found John’s old nightshirt. After his death, I had to sell most of his clothing and possessions to our creditors, but I clung to the nightshirt like a child with their teddy bears.

Forgetting about propriety, I held the shirt to my nose and inhaled deeply. John’s distinctive scent flooded my senses. I knew it was too big and not my usual sleeping wear, but I slipped it on and wrapped myself in it, imagining it was him and his strong arms around me.

It was then that the tears began to spill and I lost my composure. I quickly made my way downstairs, so I would not wake my son, and collapsed on the settee, weeping great, wracking sobs. 

I wanted to die right then and there. I didn’t want to continue alone and I didn’t want to fathom a life without him. I felt cold and alone and nothing would ever heal this pain. My body heaved and my breathing became irregular as I sobbed and wept. 

I felt a pair of arms encircle me and I heard Holmes’ voice rasp out words of comfort. Which only made me sob harder. 

“It’s not fair,” I sobbed. 

“I know,” he said softly.

“Three years isn’t enough time.”

“Three hundred wouldn’t have been enough.”

He sat next to me and put his arms around my waist, covering my body with his. A silence settled over the room as the only sound was me sniffling and sobbing. 

“I wish I never met him. Never married him. Never fell in love with him,” I sniffled.

“Now you’re just being dramatic,” Holmes whispered into my ear. I could feel his lips curl into a slight grin.

“Your attempt at humor is ill-advised,” I replied, wiping my nose on his dressing gown. “And right now I do wish that. It hurts too much.”

A hiccup escaped me as the sobs died down. “He doesn’t even know his own father,” I moaned softly, my hands fisting the nightshirt.

“He will learn,” he was rubbing my back and shoulders, trying to ground me in reality. “We’ll tell him everything.”

“It’s not the same,” I sniffled. 

Sensing that it might not have been the best time to attempt to reason with me, Holmes stopped speaking. We lay together on the settee in silence. On occasion, a wracking sob would emit from me and he would wrap his arms around me tighter. 

I will say right now that I am not proud of what happened next. Looking back at everything, I wish it didn’t, but it did. I don’t know what made me begin kissing his hands. I don’t know why I turned to face him and press his mouth to mine. Maybe it was to feel something more than the aching misery that plagued me all day. Sticking my hand in a pot of boiling water would probably have been a better idea.

But then his hands wound through my hair and his mouth opened under mine and I lost myself in the sensations, closing my eyes. His hands dipped below the neckline of the nightshirt, stroking my skin. The nightshirt was hastily unbuttoned and pulled down as his mouth slid down, warming my skin.

His fingers -- those long, dexterous fingers than John wrote about -- stroked my body to heated, hurried completion before he unbuttoned his trousers and took me on the settee. But the name that left my lips wasn’t that of the man buried in me. 

~*~

After that night, it was like the relationship between Holmes and I shifted. If this was a romance, I would say that night was a revelation. I’d say that we admitted that we loved each other and our life has been blissful ever since. 

I’d be a liar if I said that. 

In truth, it was awkward. I hadn’t intended for us to become intimate. If one was less charitable, they would say that I used him in a blinded state of grieving. That I tried to superimpose my departed husband onto another man. 

It’s a fair accusation. I wouldn’t deny it.

Holmes never leveled that accusation against me, even though he could have. The morning after, it was like nothing happened the night before. I didn’t want to raise the issue, so I remained silent also. Life was normal, except for the elephant of our coupling in the room. The silence between us was uneasy as opposed to companionable, as if we were filling it with words that neither of us could say.

Staff was added to Baker Street after we celebrated the new year. A cook and an extra maid were hired to offer assistance to Mrs. Hudson around the house, as well as a nanny for Will. Holmes continued to serve the rich and elite, but he also accepted cases that piqued his interest and could be considered a bit more dangerous than the usual purloined poodle mystery.

As a result, I found him coming home bruised and battered more frequently. 

“He fell into the Thames again,” Inspector Hopkins said one February afternoon, as Holmes swept past me, his shoes making a wet _squelching_ sound. 

I sighed. “Thank you inspector,” I said. “What exactly occurred?”

“He was chasing a member of the Jackson Gang, when the ruffian attempted to tackle him,” Inspector Hopkins shuffled his feet nervously. “Unfortunately, they were right at the edge of the river --”

“And over he went,” I said, finishing the inspector’s sentence.

Inspector Hopkins nodded. 

“Did you at least catch the villain?” I asked. For some reason, I could feel my governess voice come out as I saw how nervous the inspector was. 

“No ma’am,” he said softly. “He managed to swim away.”

I sighed, irritated. “Very well,” I said. “Thank you for bringing him home though.”

We said our goodbyes and I rang for the maid and asked her to prepare a bath for Holmes. Then I stormed upstairs.

He was in the middle of the sitting room, stripping off his clothing in front of the fire. I nearly let out a shriek, but managed to disguise it as a snort. 

“Could you at least wait until the bath has been drawn before you are down to your pants?” I snapped. “You’re going to scandalize the maid.”

He glanced up at me. “I am in no mood for your haranguing woman,” he growled as he threw his waistcoat on the floor with a splat.

“So you let him get away?” I snapped. Then my eyes lit on his arm and the ugly red mark on his sleeve. It was a rip in the shirt and I could see the gash on his arm. 

Before he could answer, I headed upstairs and rummaged around to find John’s old Gladstone bag. Opening it, the medical supplies were still in there, ready for use. I stomped downstairs with the bag. 

“Shirt off,” I ordered.

His eyes locked with mine and I could see confusion flicker across his face.

“Your wound,” I sighed. “At least let me examine it.”

“I see,” he said, pulling his bracers down and unbuttoning his shirt. I glanced downward until I saw the formerly white cloth land on the ground with a _squelch_ sound. I set the bag on John’s chair and opened it, pulling out bandages, hydrogen peroxide, a needle and some thread. 

I moved closer to Holmes forcing my eyes to remain on his arm and the wound. Thankfully it wasn’t deep. I began preparing the wound site. Holmes winced in pain as I swabbed over the area.

“How did you learn to do this?” I could tell his eyes were not focused on me. A quick glance up confirmed that -- his eyes were focused on the jackknife on the mantle. 

“John,” I said softly. I felt his body stiffen under my hands, then relax. “He had a few injuries in the past and needed my help with the stitches,” I cleaned the needle and thread. “This is going to hurt,” I warned softly.

He grunted in pain as I pushed the needle and thread in, but said nothing. His skin felt cold and clammy. 

“I’m naming all my grey hairs Sherlock,” I murmured as I finished the stitches and placed a bandage over his arm. 

“I hear that’s a popular name,” he replied, a bit of warmth peeking through. 

I looked up at him, feeling my cheeks color slightly. His hair was plastered to his head and he was definitely shivering and needed to get warm quickly. He refused to meet my gaze. I gathered up some blankets and wrapped him in them. 

“Madge will be up in a bit with the bath,” I said pouring him a cup of hot tea. “You are not allowed to leave this building for the rest of the day.”

“But the Jackson Gang --”

“Will wait another day,” I said firmly. “What on earth happened?”

He sipped the tea and stared into the fire. “Hopkins, the fool,” he muttered. “He was supposed to keep watch around the corner and be prepared to catch the rake, once I flushed him out.”

“Which he didn’t,” I finished.

Holmes nodded. “The dunderhead,” he muttered.

I suppressed a chuckle at the curse. I had heard Holmes rant about the Yard before and the quality of the detectives. I was more inclined to be kind to them knowing that the brightest of candles could easily be outshone by the sun. 

But sometimes the sun needs assistance, I thought to myself. 

I still don’t know why I said the next thing, but I remember opening my mouth and saying, “Next time, take me.”

He looked at me as if I was mad. It was the first time in days that he met my eyes, but then his gaze shifted to over my shoulder. 

“Why on earth do you think that is a good idea?” he asked.

 _Because I know you’re doing something foolish and I would like to prevent you from dying of stupidity. And I can‘t take another death right now_ , I thought to myself. “You’ve said that Hopkins is the best of the bunch and if he can’t help you apprehend a ruffian, you might need to look for more assistance.

“In addition,” I continued before he could interrupt, “no one would ever suspect a woman of aiding you -- they’d suspect you dressed as a woman before a female assisting you.”

I could see him thinking things over and weighing the merits of everything. “But the danger,” he said. “It’s an unacceptable risk.”

“I’ll have the Velodog,” I replied. “And you’ve already seen that I can hit a target.”

His eyes flicked over my face one more time -- he must have read some emotion on my face that I was unable to hide -- before settling on the fireplace. “Unacceptable risk,” he said crisply. “But I will try and be more careful.”

I knew he was lying. If I was braver, I would have confronted him, but thankfully Madge arrived with the bath and I excused myself from the room so he could have privacy. 

In the back of my mind, I thought that I could endure our marriage like this. After all, other women had similar marriages and they appeared to function -- perhaps with the aid of some solution, alcohol, treatment for hysteria or an outside rendezvous -- but they endured. I had a roof over my head, my son and would want for nothing. In short, I was ahead of most women I knew.

And so, I thought I could endure until Holmes informed me one morning that he would be leaving for Scandinavia. 

I dropped my fork on my plate. “What?” I managed to choke out. 

“The King of Scandinavia requires my assistance on a case,” he said crisply, his eyes focusing on Will, who was building a tower out of his toast. 

“For how long?” I asked. For the first time in awhile, I was able to keep my gaze focused on him.

He shrugged, running a hand through his rumpled hair.

“When are you leaving?”

Another shrug.

There were so many things I wanted to say, but I found myself unable to speak.

“Scanda Viva,” Will said seriously, looking at Holmes. “Where dat?”

Holmes sprung up from the chair and pulled out a map. “Come here,” he said, “I’ll show you on the map.”

And with that, the moment was lost. Will bounded over to Holmes and the two spent the morning staring at maps as Holmes prattled on about different countries and what could be found there while the boy listened, enraptured.

During the day, we were pulled into our respective separate spheres. Madge had fallen ill and to clear my head of Holmes’ news, I offered to assist Mrs. Hudson with some chores. She was surprised by the offer and looked as if she was going to say something else, but changed her mind.

It sounds ridiculous, but scrubbing the pots and pans in the kitchen helped me mentally focus my energies. I realized that we needed to talk about what happened over Christmas. I realized that I wasn’t sure what I wanted from Holmes. All I knew is that I didn’t want what we currently had.

I was in the kitchen taking my energies out on a roasting pan when I heard him cough. _Of course_ , I thought to myself as I wiped my brow. _He would choose the time when I’m too busy to talk to him to flee._

I turned around and looked at him. He was properly attired for travel and his hat was pulled low and over his eyes.

“I thought I would tell you that I’m going now,” he said.

I nodded briskly. “I take it the cab is already here?”

He nodded.

It wasn’t enough time to say everything that needed to be said. I sighed. “Have a good trip,” I said.

“I’ll try and write.”

“Don’t worry about us,” I said, with some false brightness. “Just come home safe.”

An odd smile tugged at his lips. “I will endeavor to do my best,” he said, then turned and left.

I returned to my scrubbing. Then after that, I took the mismatched china out of the cabinet, went outside and hurled it against the wall. Mrs. Hudson raised an eyebrow later in question, but I offered to purchase a proper, matching set of china in whatever pattern desired.

~*~

“When I heard that the great Sherlock Holmes had wed, I had to come and see who the bride was.”

My eyes flew open at the voice in the sitting room. It was a month after Holmes left for Scandinavia and a vicious cold was affecting me. Unable to sleep, I found myself dozing in front of the fire in John’s chair after the nanny took Will out for some fresh air.

“I have to say I’m not surprised that he didn’t pick a pretty woman,” the voice continued. 

I glanced over at the other chair. There was a woman with dark auburn hair and brown eyes regarding me with a slight smile. She was dressed in a dark blue satin gown. She was stunning and had the same majestic air about her that great tigers had. In other words, beautiful, but with no compunction about killing you in a heartbeat. 

With my dressing gown and disheveled appearance, I felt positively mousy next to her.

I ran the possibilities through my head -- she wasn’t a client and she seemed very familiar with Holmes. Intelligent and crafty. I remembered everything John had told me and one name came to mind.

“Miss Adler,” I coughed out, then wiped my nose with a handkerchief.

She nodded. “You must be Mrs. Watson,” she said with a slight smile. “I didn’t expect to see you like this.”

“I didn’t expect to be entertaining guests,” I said, my posture improving. “Shall I get some tea?”

Miss Adler shook her head. “No need,” she said. “I’ve got a tray set up already and some honey also for your throat. “

I accepted the cup of tea from her, then sniffed it suspiciously. 

“You’ve been warned?” Her smile was feline.

I nodded. She sipped her tea first and then I drank. The tea was perfect -- hot and sweet with a scent of clove and the honey coated my throat beautifully.

“What do I owe this pleasure? And please forgive my disheveled appearance,” I said politely. “I seem to have caught a cold.”

“I heard about Sherlock getting married and my curiosity was piqued,” she said, studying me. “I had to know who the woman was that managed to snare him in holy matrimony.”

There were a myriad of ways this conversation could go, I realized. I could play the manners game and gain nothing of import, or I could just be honest and see where it led me. I really had nothing to lose, the more I thought about it. 

“Now you’ve seen her -- in all her glory,” I said with a bit of sarcasm. “May I inquire about your history with my husband?”

She chuckled. “It’s complicated,” she said. I instantly understood -- John told me everything. “But I get the sense that your marriage to Sherlock isn’t exactly wine and roses -- after all, you did keep your surname, Mrs. Watson.”

Miss Adler was as learned and observant as I thought she would be. “It’s an odd arrangement, I’ll admit,” I said. “It is, as you say, complicated,” I sipped my tea. “He’s not here, if you’re seeking him. Left for Scandinavia a month ago.”

“I know.”

The more I studied her face, the more I began to recall things. I remembered John’s funeral less than a year ago and being frozen in grief. But I also remembered some of the faces and one that stood out was a woman, dressed in black with a veil partially covering her face. She was sobbing silently, but did not speak, nor introduce herself to me. Which I didn’t mind at the time, given how grieving I was. But there was something about her presence that made me remember her. 

“You were at John’s funeral,” I said softly. “I remember the veil. Very theatrical.”

Miss Alder’s smile faded. “He was a good man,” she said softly. “Probably better than what Sherlock deserved.”

“Especially after Reichenbach,” I muttered. My mind flashed back to the memorial service and past John’s grief and Mrs. Hudson’s wailing. I could see her at the edge of the crowd. “You were at the memorial service then also?”

She nodded. “Sherlock’s my favorite mistake,” she said thoughtfully. 

I chuckled. “I’m sure John would say the same thing,”

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” Miss Adler smiled slightly. 

I could sense myself falling under her spell. Miss Adler had the ability to bend the world to her whims. People would give her what she wanted thanks to a simple smile. I didn’t doubt for a moment that the jewels that John told me she stole weren’t because she picked locked and cracked open safes -- she just manipulated people into giving her those items, then waltzed right out of their lives.

It is a talent I sometimes wish I had. But I’d waste it on getting Holmes and Will to eat their vegetables.

“So am I everything you expected?” I asked, turning my attention back on her. I felt like I had nothing to lose talking to her, but it could have been her persona. 

“Much more,” Miss Adler said. “He chose wisely.”

I snorted at that.

“Sherlock,” Miss Adler practically purred out his name, “doesn’t realize it yet, but he needs a solid foundation to do his little endeavors. Maybe that’s why he never ran off with me -- even though we could have been beautiful together,” her brow crinkled slightly, as if she regretted that.

“Your doctor was one of those people,” she continued. “And you were the rock for him, so I wouldn’t be surprised that he wanted to marry you.”

“You’re mistaken,” I snorted again. “He married me because he wanted to ensure that John’s family would never become destitute.”

Miss Adler giggled -- it was a bright, merry laugh, which irritated me, because I didn’t understand why she was laughing. “My dear,” she said. “Just because he said it doesn’t mean that it’s true.” Another peal of laughter left her lips. “He’s attached to you.”

“He wants a substitute for my husband,” I replied irritated. “I’m the chosen one.”

“Is that so bad?” she asked. “He loved your husband the same way you loved him.”

I had no idea how she was doing it, but she managed to wiggle her way into my mind and apply the right questions to make me open like a lock with the right key. 

“I don’t know,” I admitted after a long silence. “It just feels strange. I feel --”

“Like you’re being disloyal to your doctor,” she said. “Like it’s not you he wants, but a substitute.”

I nodded. “Why are you so interested anyway?” I asked.

She shrugged. “I’m just getting to know Sherlock’s new bride,” she said, waving her hand around. She poured another cup of tea for the both of us and took a sip. “You just appear a bit,” she chewed her lip, “lonely.”

I rolled my eyes. “Quick perceptions from a charlatan,” I muttered. 

She chuckled. “But it’s the truth, or else you wouldn’t be so quick to dismiss it,” she laughed.

I would have said more, but Will and the nanny came through the door. Will leaped onto my lap and hugged me.

“Mummy!” he cried out, snuggling in the crook of my arm. Noticing Miss Adler he studied her for a moment. “Who’s she?”

“A friend,” I said. “Now go upstairs with Nan and she’ll read you some books.”

Will wiggled closer, kissed my cheek and then bounded up the stairs.

Miss Adler stood and donned her hat and gloves. Pulling on her cloak she said, “You have a beautiful son. He’s the perfect mix of you and Doctor Watson.”

I snorted again. “I thought you said I wasn’t pretty.”

Miss Adler adjusted her hat and looked at me with a smile -- this time it felt warmer and more genuine than the previous ones. “Pretty implies a fragility in my mind. It doesn‘t last forever,” she said. “Beauty has strength and lasts the ages. I didn’t say you weren’t beautiful. I said you weren’t pretty.”

I felt off center with this conversation. The sands kept shifting too much for me to get a fix on what we were discussing or even where Miss Adler stood. And now she was leaving, which confused me all the more. No wonder Holmes mooned over her like a lovesick swain, I thought to myself. He had no idea where he stood with her. Trying to keep up with her train of thought was making me dizzy, I realized.

“Miss Adler,” I said.

She arched an eyebrow and stared at me.

“Did you and my husband ever --” I trailed off, slightly embarrassed at the question, but for some reason, I couldn’t resist asking it. There was something about her that made me remember a past conversation with John and I couldn’t let her leave without knowing the truth.

Miss Adler bit her lower lip, then nodded. “If we’re being truthful, yes,” she said. “Oh, it was years before he even met you. Just a brief, fleeting thing really for one night.”

I chuckled. “I once asked him about his past and the ‘three continents’ line,” I said. “He said it was a slight exaggeration and that one woman really taught him about the fairer sex. I always said that if I met that woman, I would give her flowers and pay for tea.”

I could feel the tears welling up again. “You, like Mr. Holmes, helped make him a great man,” I said softly.

Her smile was genuine. “It was us,” she said. “And you can’t deny the influence he had on us.” 

My eyes started to feel heavy and I battled the urge to sleep. “You drugged the tea,” I said, not as an accusation, but more of a confirmation.

“A bit of codeine,” she admitted. “I coated your cup with it before I poured your tea. You need your rest.” Miss Adler pulled the blanket up around me and tucked me into the chair like a child. 

“Next time we meet, no drugs,” I slurred. “I want to enjoy our visit.”

Another peal of laughter rang in my ears. “Another time Mrs. Watson,” she said. “Another time.”

~*~

I slept and dreamed. I dreamed of John and Holmes, reproachful stares and heavy sighs of sadness. But I also dreamed of happier times when all of us were together, laughing and listening to stories. I dreamed of John’s hands on my skin, his lips on mine and of Holmes’ body between my legs as he whispered endearments in French in my ear. I dreamed of Will and his confusion as to who was his father. Each dream mirrored the emotional turmoil I was experiencing.

I have no idea if Miss Adler put something else besides codeine in my tea. I still wonder sometimes.

I remember summoning enough strength to make it into Holmes’ room to sleep in his bed. Eventually I woke, fuzzy-headed from too much sleep and my mouth feeling like cotton batting. Holmes’ scent -- chemicals, tobacco and his own distinctive musky imprint -- invaded my nostrils and I sighed.

I missed him. I missed his over-long explanations for everything, the small explosions, the way Will’s eyes would light up when Holmes began telling stories. I hoped he would return soon, but my instincts told me that he would avoid me as much as possible in the meantime. 

I flopped down on the settee and cursed quietly. I looked about the sitting room and in the late-morning light, I saw that Mrs. Hudson laid out a small repast and the mail was piled up on the tea tray. There was also a note from her stating that Will and his nanny were out getting air and going to see the dinosaurs at the museum.

I sighed. Miss Adler was right -- I did feel lonely. I poured myself a cup of tea and then, on Holmes’ chair, I something caught my eye.

It was an ornately folded piece of paper -- in the shape of two swans, their beaks nuzzling. I wondered briefly how the swans survived in the chair without being molested by Will or torn apart by a curious maid.

I picked it up and unfolded it. The handwriting was surprisingly neat and clean:

_Mrs. Watson --_

_If you seek your husband, he is at the Punchbowl. He returned from Scandinavia a fortnight ago and has been hiding there. The coward._

_Until we meet again,_

_Miss Adler_

I clutched the note to my breast and laughed. Next time I saw Miss Adler, I would take her out for dinner wherever she wished and shower her with flowers and jewels. 

~*~

The Punchbowl is not a place for proper ladies. I realized that when I found the place. John never mentioned it to me -- he just said that Holmes enjoyed bare knuckled boxing and had a safe house in a garret above the pub where the boxing occurred.

I arrived there at night. It took me awhile to screw up my courage to go and confront him. Arrangements also had to be made to ensure that Will would be safe and sound. 

The Punchbowl was located in the seedier part of London and I was relieved to have the Velodog in my pocket as the cab dropped me off in front of the pub. I could hear the rousing cheers from inside the bar. Taking a deep breath, I screwed up my courage and entered the pub.

The press of bodies was astounding. The entire place smelled like sweat, smoke and alcohol. I could feel men’s eyes rake over my body, but I ignored them. On occasion a hand reached out to grope me, but a well-placed stomp with the heel of my boot ended that quickly. When another man blocked my way, I simply pressed the muzzle of the pistol in a man’s groin and stared him down. He quickly backed away.

The crudely-built wooden ring housed two shirtless men, who were throwing punches and vicious slaps. One of them was Holmes. He prowled around the ring like a panther, sliding in quick and deft jabs and punches. His expression was predatory, until his eyes lit on me and then surprise flickered over his face.

His opponent took advantage of that moment, unleashing a vicious punch to the gut and following up with an uppercut right in front of me. My shriek of fright was drowned out by the roar of the crowd.

Holmes didn’t fall. He remained bent over, grasping the rail of the ring. I grabbed his hand and he looked up surprised.

“Mrs. Watson,” he said coolly. “Fancy meeting you here.”

“And here I thought you were in Scandinavia,” I said. 

“Are you in or out?” his opponent growled behind him. “This isn’t time to be chatting up your sweetheart.” 

Holmes looked at me, “Do you mind?” I could see a flash of his old cocky persona.

I nodded. “I can wait,” I wanted his attention on me, so I added, “but not for long.”

With that, Holmes spun around and in a flurry of strikes, jabs and punches, his opponent was on the ground. It was bloody and gruesome. Frankly, I was so happy to see him, I really didn’t care about the outcome as long as he was in in one piece. He exited the ring and took my arm. A quick glance saw his was covered in bruises, cuts and scrapes. 

He collected his winnings and grabbed a bottle of ale from behind the bar. I followed him upstairs. John was right -- the room was indeed small -- enough room for a bed and a chair. Holmes flopped down on the bed and removed the cork from the bottle, then drank deeply.

“So what do I owe this pleasure?” he asked, a bit of bitterness tingeing his voice.

I opened my mouth, but the words I wanted to say couldn’t come out. I found myself gawping like a dying fish in front of him. I could feel my defenses rise.

“You returned earlier than I thought,” I said.

There was a sardonic smile. “It was a simple case.” Holmes took another long swig from the bottle. I found myself transfixed by him and getting a sense of courage. I remembered what I wanted to tell him.

“We need to talk --”I began, but he cut me off.

“I know,” he said. “I’ve been thinking about everything and I’ve realized something. I can’t compete with Watson. I am not as good as he was and I can‘t replace him. I know you loved him with every fiber of your being.

“But I figured out something,” he took another swig of the ale and wiped his face. “I love you as much as he did and I am perfectly happy to come in second place in your heart if it means you’ll stay.”

It was like the air went out of the room. I felt myself getting dizzy and I found myself collapsing on the chair as my knees gave out.

“Well?” he asked, his expression a mix of fear and hope.

I began laughing and crying at the same time. Hysterical laughter bubbled forth and I doubled over, which shocked him. He slid onto his knees onto the floor and made his way over to me. He took my hands in his and I looked down at him. There it was -- I could see the expectant look on his face as well as confusion. 

I wiped tears out of my eyes before running my hands along his cheek and into his hair. “You just said everything that I was going to say,” I whispered.

My hands twisted in his hair, our mouths met and in a messy tangle of tongues and lips and I felt like I was soaring.

~*~

We didn’t return to Baker Street that night. During that night, I learned more about Holmes that I suspect few people knew.

I figured that his powers of deduction wouldn’t cease in our coupling, but I was amazed by his _focus_. In our daily interactions, it wasn’t unusual to see his attention flit from a chemical experiment to solving an agony column plea to answering another “why” question from Will, all in the span of seconds.

I honestly expected that, but he was so present in the moment, studying every reaction his touch elicited from me. I was his own personal science experiment -- he formed a hypothesis, tested it, gauged the result and then tried something new. After the past year, it was blissful being the center of such attention.

I learned that he enjoyed having his fingers kissed and nibbled, often resulting in his eyes rolling up into his head and long moans emitting from him. I stored that information away, knowing it could be used for possible fun in the future. 

Despite the new (and old) bruises and scrapes from the fights, he didn’t move gingerly or slowly. It was like the past months unsaid words were redirected into his physical exertions that ended with his arms wrapped around me as we drifted off to sleep.

When the blue-grey light of dawn broke through the window, my eyes opened. He lay beside me, staring at me thoughtfully. 

“You do realize that Miss Adler told me where you were,” I said.

“Good morning to you,” he replied, his hand gently stroking my cheek. “And yes, I figured she would, since I asked her to spy on you for me. She owed me a favor or two and I asked her to make sure you were safe.”

My body warmed under his touch and I closed my eyes with a smile. “You missed me,” I said.

“I did.” His fingers twined into my hair, massaging my scalp.

“I missed you too.” 

“So what did she tell you?” 

“That you were ill, looked lonely and that I was a fool not to return home,” he mumbled, his fingers moving down to stroke my back and the tops of my breasts. “She also said that I chose wisely.”

“She didn’t mention drugging me did she?” The words came out as a breathy sigh as my body arched closer to his.

“She did not,” he said, eyes darkening. “Why am I not surprised by this?” he said, before kissing me. And with that, we were unable to speak coherent words for awhile.

It was midmorning when I finally was able to form the words, “You are coming home.” It wasn’t a question.

“I was thinking we could stay here,” he mumbled into my neck. “Forget the outside world. Wiggins could come back with fish and chips from that shop I like so much and this could be our honeymoon.”

I giggled. “What about crime? What about Will?”

“Oh we’ll return,” he replied. I could feel his breath on my collarbone. “I’m just not ready yet.”

There was a long moment of companionable silence, but I noticed a cloud pass over Holmes’ face. “What is it?” I asked.

“I was thinking,” he finally said, sitting up so he could look down at me. “What would Watson say about this?”

I sat up and studied him. I understood his fears. But then my mind recalled a conversation I had with John before he died and I began to laugh.

An eyebrow arched as he stared at me in confusion.

“I was remembering something,” I said. “This was before John died -- he was ill, but his personality was still the same. He was ruminating on the fact that your body was never found at the bottom of the Falls. He was clinging to the hope that you were still alive.”

Holmes’ face was dark shadows, but I continued to talk, not letting him interrupt. I didn’t want to lose him to sadness again.

“I remembered asking him, ‘What do you think Mr. Holmes would do when he finds that you’ve passed on before he could see you?’ I remember John saying this --”

My hands flew up to cover my upper lip, so my fingers could act like a moustache. A rather lively moustache that bounced and wriggled, which caused Holmes to chuckle slightly. 

“’Well Mary,“ I pitched my voice lower in a terrible imitation of John doing a terrible imitation of Holmes, “knowing Holmes, he probably would say something like ‘One Watson’s as good as another’ and not leave your side. You could try and be rid of him, but he probably would do everything in his power to remain with you and Will.’ Just make sure he doesn‘t experiment on our son.” 

The moustache leaped and danced on my face, causing his chuckle to become a guffaw. His hands reached out and pulled my moustache away from my face. Stroking my cheek with his fingers, his laughter faded and he studied me seriously. 

“I never realized how perceptive Watson was,” Holmes said. “Or how correct he could be.” Then his mouth connected with mine and I felt like I could fly once more.


End file.
